


Dance of Death

by Fyre



Category: Elisabeth - Levay/Kunze, Tanz der Vampire - Steinman/Kunze
Genre: Bondage, Breathplay, Crossover, Dubious Consent, M/M, Masochism, Sadism, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-27
Updated: 2012-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-13 00:57:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over many years, Death finds himself encountering the Graf von Krolock and his erstwhile son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> I originally started writing this after seeing the Polish production of Tanz der Vampire, so those are the faces these characters wear. Aren't they lovely?

The tavern was full of merry students celebrating the end of another year, blissfully ignoring the fact that they would be scattered throughout Europe within a matter of days, returned to their homes and away from their jovial and intellectual compatriots.

Outside, the snow was falling, thick and crisp. The world was white and shadows of houses were only made visible by the candles in the windows and the dim glow of fires within them.

The students, however, were oblivious to such intricacies of the world beyond their next drink and significant philosophical debate. Two were certainly unaware of the fact that, within a matter of hours, each of them would be dead by the hand of the friend whom he was presently sagged against for support.

In a shadowed corner close to the roaring fire, somehow alone in the throng, a silent figure watched them, his pale eyes half-closed.

“To life!”

Death’s eyes flicked towards a group of tables that had been pulled together by a mass of young men. One of them was scrambling up atop the precariously-wobbling surface, a tankard raised in his hand.

“Mein Herr!” one of the barmaids exclaimed, flushing and hurrying towards him.

“To life!” the young man raised his voice even more, ignoring the barmaid, who was conveniently accosted by one of his friends and pulled down into an overly-friendly lap. “May it be eternal!”

A fair eyebrow was arched in the shadows.

“Ha, not gnawing on that old bone again, Johannes!” one of the young men at the table said in the tone of one who had heard that same toast before. “Life is life! You live, then you die. It is how things have always been and how they always will be.”

“Only for those who lack the vision to make it more,” the youth called Johannes announced, swaying and raising a hand imperiously. “In this age, have we not ventured beyond the imaginings of those of a hundred years ago?”

Leaning forward, Death’s eyes narrowed in silent scrutiny of the youth.

He was barely out of his teenage years, and the jet black hair that hung between his shoulders was breaking free of the binding that held it back. It appeared he had been in the tavern for quite some time, because his face was flushed from more than just the warmth, his cheeks dusted with stubble and his eyes glittering wildly.

“You have drunk too much, your mighty and most excellent Excellency.” One of the men in his company laughed aloud, clapping his hands together. On the tabletop, the man named Johannes wobbled, falling unsteadily onto one knee, but was still visible. “See! How can you argue when you cannot even stand?”

A swaying finger pointed at the outspoken man. “Even when drunk, I can outdebate you, Wilhelm,” he slurred, then threw back his head and laughed. “Ah, life! To life!” Using Wilhelm’s shoulder, he levered himself upright again. “To life!”

If they had not been watching before, at the merry laughter and raised voice every eye in the room turned to the striking young man, who was raising his tankard so enthusiastically that his drink was spattering over his companions, who laughed and raised then own drinks to him.

“So what are you saying then, Hannes?” It was the first young man speaking again, his grey eyes dancing with amusement. “To life? To shying from death? To living forever?”

Black eyes blinked, glassy with drink, then he laughed again, merrily. “All of them, my dear Herbert!” he exclaimed, bending slowly to look his friend in the face. “I will prove it can be done!”

“Blasphemy!”

As one, the man on top of the table and his two talkative friends looked towards a righteously-indignant youth who was standing at another table, pointing at them with no small amount of outrage.

On one knee on the table, the boy called Johannes smiled, bringing his tankard down on the tabletop forcefully. Then, he threw back his head and in a voice none could ignore, bellowed, “I alone will stand against death! Let it come for me!” With help from both his friends, he rose. He swayed for a moment, then raised his hands for silence and his voice was full of power and alcohol-laced passion. “To life!”

In the depths of the shadows, Death rose and raised his glass. It was full of a dark fluid. It was not wine.

“To life,” he murmured.

On the tabletop, he saw the man flinch and black eyes flicked towards him so suddenly that he wondered if the youth was as drunk as he appeared. Around the boy, he saw the flickers of something that was not of mortality, a shadow and a swirl of colour, a glimpse of a world beyond.

A seer.

Oh, how delightful.

The boy stared at him, as if seeing someone familiar yet someone he could not quite remember. Death inclined his head and raised his glass a fraction, which seemed to shatter whatever vision the boy was seeing. At his arms, the boy’s friends were supporting him, and Johannes’ legs buckled beneath him, the glassy veneer returning to his eyes.

Smiling slightly, Death watched as the dark-haired boy was helped down from the table, his two friends kindly looping his arms around their if no less drunk, then slightly more sober shoulders.

Interesting. Very interesting.

And a challenge on top of that.

True, it had been drunken exultation that he may not remember with the morning, but it had been a challenge nonetheless and Death appreciated nothing less than an arrogant young thing who thought he was invincible. And a seer. That would certainly add a new element to the game.

He saw the trio of young men shambling towards the door and knew he would see them all again, most especially the proud young Master Johannes von Krolock.

Taking a sip of the dark liquid in his glass, Death smiled and returned his attention to the two whom he would know within the hour. He could wait.


	2. Nocturne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some ten years after his first encounter with the young von Krolock, Death crosses his path again.

He stood upon the threshold.

Dark emptiness spread behind him, while before him the large room was warm and welcoming. A fire in the grate illuminated the figure of a young woman seated by the crib. She was of no interest to him.

Stepping down from the edge of his domain, drawing shadows with him like a cloak, Death approached the wooden cradle with its elegant carved decorations. His fingers trailed along the edge and he glanced idly towards the door that lead to the rest of the vast castle.

For months, he had been watching the Graf and his spiralling descent into a madness that had been beautiful in its intensity. Cursed with the sight, past, present and future had crowded in a mind already overrun with imagination and knowledge. His downfall had been remarkable.

And at every turn, Death had been his constant companion, whispering poisonous pleasures in that proud ear, turning his head, dazzling his mind, breaking it apart with glimpses of death and despair.

His death would have been exquisitely sweet, and Death had had every intention that it would be by the Graf’s own two hands, claiming Death’s mercy willingly, falling into his arms and accepting his embrace as liberty from the cruelty of mortal life.

Though a short span by his own reckoning, he had lavished a great deal of attention on the mind that had been so strong and steady when they had first encountered. It had been for his own amusement that he had - a piece at a time - broken it apart, simply to prove it was possible.

The proud Graf had been proud no longer, reduced to staring into shadows as a golden-haired creature with the voice and appearance of an angel and the words of the devil had whispered terrible and wonderful things to him.

Death’s expression darkened and the candles around the room flickered and flared, several sputtering out.

By the cradle, the woman looked up, pulling her shawl closer around her, her face drawn and white. There were the edges of madness in her features, he noticed, and given the child she watched over and the master she now served, he supposed it was not entirely unexpected.

Shivering fingers crossed her breast and she rose to relight the candles. Ignoring her, Death bent over the cradle, reaching down to trace the outline of the sleeping infant’s gold-crowned head.

Small fists were curled on either side of the pink-cheeked face, the infant barely a handful of months in age. Motherless too. Death remembered his fleeting encounter with the woman, even as the Graf had tried to pull her back from the welcoming doorway of Death’s realm, but he had been too weak to hold her to him.

With her blood on his lips, his own body the instrument of her murder, the Graf had only been able to watch as Death took her hand and lead her away.

It had been a brief morsel by comparison to the feast that the Graf’s passing would have been, but when another had interceded, stealing the Graf’s mortality along with his endless death, Johannes von Krolock’s demise had been forever denied him.

Breaching the abyss between the worlds of living and dead, Death’s fingertip ran over the small fist and he watched as tiny fingers uncurled. They wrapped around his finger, squeezing with strange strength for one so small.

For all the weeks of his father’s new life, a second-rate half-life, half-death, an existence dependant on the blood of others, Death had turned his gaze to this last remnant of von Krolock’s mortal existence.

If he could not have the Graf, then he would have all the Graf held dear.

His intention had been to turn the father’s immortal mouth against the child. He had hoped to see the infant’s blood spilled and knew that was the fate of the boy, though he could not see when the time would be. A mortal’s end he could see if he chose to look deep enough, but he would have to wait for this one, it seemed.

Still, he was impatient.

Lowering his other hand into the cradle, he closed his palm over the sleeping child’s nose and mouth, his teeth gritting together. He could feel the warm breath, sweet scented, against his cool skin.

The child whimpered, stirring.

At the candles, the nurse whirled around at the quiet sound, then uttered a startled exclamation. Death’s glanced over his shoulder to her in time to see the colour fade from her face as she sank to the floor in a swoon.

She was not, however, looking at him.

A long-fingered hand wrapped around his wrist, and he looked up into black eyes.

The Graf smiled without humour. “I would not,” he murmured. Without effort, the Graf drew Death’s hand from his child’s face.

Severing his bond to his domain, untouchable by those cursed with a half-death, Death’s mouth curved in a shadow of von Krolock’s own smile. He inclined his head mockingly. “Excellency.”

Had he been mortal, the vice-like hold on his wrist would likely have been painful.

“He will not be yours.” The black eyes were flashing with icy fire. “Not now.”

Death laughed softly, his other hand prying the Graf’s hand from his wrist. “But he will be mine, Herr Vampire,” he said in a laughing whisper. “As will all those mortals who pass through your everlasting hands.”

With a smooth swiftness, he rounded the crib, gazing into those blazing eyes.

“And when you drain the life from him, I will be waiting.”

Von Krolock’s hand grabbed at his throat and he stepped back into his own domain, out of reach, his mocking mirth ringing about the chamber.

And from the dark solitude of his realm, he watched the vampire stoop and gather his whimpering mortal son in his arms. At once, the child quieted, and the Graf bent his proud head to kiss the boy’s brow.

“Oh yes, Excellency,” Death whispered. “I _will_ be waiting.”


	3. Pastorale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death continues to watch over the von Krolock clan.

It was a beautiful day, the skies clear and blue, the sun scorching brightly across its heavenly path, which explained the absence of the boy’s father. Running with youths of his own age, the fair-haired son of the Graf von Krolock still stood apart from the throng.

His golden hair was as fair as it had been in infancy, and his every gesture and motion was used with the intention of drawing all eyes to him. Every smile seemed to be a token for those around him, his charm undeniable, even for one barely into his teenage years.

From the shadows of his own realm, Death watched the boy laugh, stripping off his fine clothing and bundling it with the garb of his companions, before racing for the lake, the sun and shade dappling across his tanned skin.

The half dozen teenagers splashed deeper and deeper into the green-tinted water, led by the striking mortal son of the vampire Lord. His boldness and arrogance seemed to spur them to recklessness.

He dived beneath the water and one by one, his companions followed, none wishing to be the one left behind.

In his unseen world, Death gestured slowly with one hand, changing the sight before him, and the world darkened as he looked up from the bottom of the lake. Though it was not as deep as some, it was still enough for an unprotected and reckless boy to drown in.

Around young von Krolock, his friends could neither dive as deeply nor swim as strongly and they surfaced. Apparently, he rose to chastise them, before plunging under the water again, diving downwards, deeper than before.

Death smiled, placing his hand against the invisible barrier that separated his world from the world of mortals, stepping through it, the chill water of the lake bed enveloping him. His clothing blended into white, his golden hair swirling in the eddies.

Above him, he could see the boy swimming fiercely onwards and he kicked off from the lake-bed, lazy strokes bringing him closer and closer to the boy. He saw the instant green-hued grey eyes saw him and the boy’s momentum halted, graceful arms turning clumsy as he gasped and thrashed, trying to right himself.

Floating mere feet from the boy, Death smiled, his shirt and hair billowing about him, his arms spread and his hands feet moving lazily to hold him steady.

Pressure tried to raise the boy towards the surface, but he fought it, staring at Death, his hands and feet thrashing over him to let him remain. One of those hands, washed eerily pale by the water-filtered light, stretched out towards Death, as if trying to touch a ghost.

With a kick of his feet, Death moved closer, catching the boy’s hand lightly and drawing him near. Though cooled by the water, the boy’s skin was still warm and his other hand grasped at Death’s shoulder, his own hair swelling and rising about his young face, caught in the currents.

His grey eyes seemed utterly mesmerised and Death smiled. His other hand sank into the boy’s hair and he brought the boy’s mouth hard against his own, drawing the air from him, and expecting him to struggle.

What he did not expect was for the boy to clutch at him and to part his lips willingly.

Nor did he expect himself to respond, kissing the boy mercilessly, savagely, ravishing his mouth until he felt the boy shiver and go limp in his arms, his air spent. Unleashing him, he watched the boy’s body slowly start to rise, waiting for the lingering flicker of a soul parting the ways from its mortal shell.

From above there was a flurry of commotion and he drew his darkness about him, cursing under his breath at the sight of the boy’s friends diving. They grabbed the youth’s body by his arms and pulled him back towards the surface, away from Death’s grasp.

Slipping back into the shadows of his realm, Death altered the world about him once more, watching the land as the boy’s body was dragged from the lake, his frantic friends trying to shake life back into him, slapping him and pressing their hands against his chest.

Their efforts seemed sufficient and he gagged, choking and rolling onto his side, coughing up water, colour flooding his face, then he sagged against the shale of the lakeside and fell into a faint.

Death watched as the boy was gathered up and the group of teenagers bore him back to his father’s castle.

As night fell, he followed the path they had taken, slipping unseen and unnoticed into the castle and emerging from his shadowy world. Invisible to the eyes of the living, he moved through the halls, following the weak thread of life that still held so fast despite his attempts.

Like mist, he swept through the door into the room where the boy lay.

Pale against the pillows, his hair fanning about him, his slim hands resting on the dark covers, he was still lost in unconsciousness. By the bed, his father sat in the attitude of a mortal father, his features fraught with concern, though his flesh was paler than his son’s and he no longer breathed.

Death approached and he saw the vampire sit up, straightening his back, his already drawn expression tensing. Though his head did not move, his dark eyes roamed the silent room until they touched the spot where Death yet concealed himself.

“Have you not done enough?”

Merging out of nothing, Death smiled. “Your son’s recklessness is not my doing, Herr Vampire,” he murmured, folding his arms over his chest and gazing down at the boy. “Nor is his mortal weakness.”

“His time is not come.” Von Krolock rose from the bedside, placing himself between his son and Death. In the black depths of his almost human eyes, there was the gleam of demonic malevolence. “You have no place here.”

Death smiled showing all his teeth and laughed. “Not yet,” he corrected.

The growl belied the human façade that the noble Graf wore. “Leave this place.”

Ignoring him, Death shifted planes and stepped through the vampire’s body. He sat down on the edge of the bed, leaning over the boy. “Your words have no power over me, your Excellency,” he murmured as he brushed a strand of the boy’s hair back with a fingertip, the gesture so gentle and tender, it almost belied the mocking smile on his lips.

The Graf tried to grasp at him, but his hand passed through Death’s shoulder as if it were smoke, unable to stop Death touching his son’s still face, nor able to pull him back when Death touched his lips against Herbert’s with a pleasant sigh.

Grey eyes flickered open, blinking, and pale lips parted in a quiet gasp beneath Death’s.

“Herbert!”

Death was left reeling as the Graf somehow managed to snare his shoulder, his steely grip throwing Death backwards, stumbling. It should not have been possible, but he could see the lingering traces of darker magic around the Graf as he gathered his son in his arms.

Over the Graf’s shoulder, he saw unfocussed grey eyes look at him and bowed his head, fading out of sight without another word.


	4. Elegy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death is present at the end of Herbert von Krolock's mortal life

Standing upon the brink of the barrier that separated the living from the dead, his pale hands folded behind him, Death’s lips curved in slow satisfaction as he watched the boy arch in his father’s murderous hold.

Despite his nature, despite every soul that fleetingly met him at his threshold, he was not immune to the beauty of the moment and this ranked high among them.

The father’s jet hair mingled with the son’s gold against the carmine fabric of the boy’s crumpled shirt, and on his pale chest, a snake of scarlet was trailing from the wound inflicted upon his throat.

For so long, he had awaited the father only to be denied him, but now, the son would be his. A fitting price, he mused, after the number of close escapes both father and son had managed, through accident and misadventure.

Around the boy, his influence spread like malevolent shadows, smothering away the colours and the brightness of the mortal world. Even the twilight of the chamber seemed to fade and his father’s cradling arms faded to transparency.

Approaching, hands loose by his sides, Death slowly sank to crouch by the boy. It had been several years since their second encounter and the boy had reached maturity since then, his features refined, striking. His golden hair was loose and, inexplicably, he was smiling as his heartbeat slowed, then ceased.

The fragile bond tying him to the world of the living was severed, his father’s form vanishing, spilling him to the surfaceless ground of Death’s domain.

Death drew a knuckle down the boy’s cheek, his mouth lifting in quiet amusement at how easily this one had become his, by his father’s own hand. It would be fitting to keep him as an entertainment for a time.

Grey eyes snapped wide open at his touch. For a moment, there was consternation, but it was replaced by swift recognition; “You!” His smile was sudden and beatific and completely unexpected.

Any response Death might have considered were lost as the boy surged upwards, his hands sinking into Death’s golden hair, his voracious mouth - still warm and hungry - pressing demandingly to Death’s with an undeniable passion.

Pulled down onto one knee by the boy’s ferocity, Death dragged him close a moment before he became aware that he had done such a thing. His hands grasped the boy’s face, pushing him back away, his own startled ice-blue eyes on the boy’s bright grey ones and the smile that seemed to be lighting them from within.

“I hoped I would see you again,” the boy breathed, pulling back one of his hands to clasp Death’s against his cheek. He turned his head and kissed Death’s palm, his mouth so very hot, his mortality-laced breath sweet with fading life.

“To see me?” Death’s voice was heavy with incredulity, his other hand sliding to the bloody mortal wound that still decorated the boy’s throat.

The boy’s tongue traced a wicked caress against his wrist. “Oh, yes,” he moaned as if even the taste of Death’s cool flesh was satisfaction itself, drawing a shudder of hunger from Death. “How could I forget someone so beautiful?” The boy exhaled a shivering breath, tilting his head back as Death’s thumb slid down the front of his throat. “I dreamed of you so often...”

Leaning close enough to watch the hunger flare in those half-closed smoke-grey eyes, Death tilted his chin, his lips close, though not quite touching. “You should have feared me,” he observed and he felt the boy’s fingers curl in his hair.

The boy’s mouth curved in a smile that was far from innocent. “Oh, my darling, don’t you know I never do what I’m told to?” he breathed against Death’s lips, the fingers of his other hand caressing the hand that still framed his face.

Slowly inclining his head, the distance between their parted lips less than a hair’s breadth, Death watched the grey eyes, which were half-closed, and did not even attempt to resist the press of the boy’s hand against the back of his skull, bringing their mouths together once more.

As rare as it was to find someone who did not shy from him in terror, it was rarer still to have one kiss him so voraciously and suddenly leap in his arms in a futile attempt to tackle him to the floor.

Tumbled onto his back and brought down fast, Death’s hand cupping his head, the boy laughed in delight against Death’s lips, wrapping his legs around Death’s waist and pulling him closer even as his mouth consumed Death’s every kiss.

Around them, Death willed the change, the darkness taking shape until the bleak solidness beneath them gave way to softness, a mortal-styled bed, rising below them, broad and luxurious.

Pulling away from the kiss, the boy all but squealed in delight, his slender young body giving a sensuous wriggle as if to highlight his approval. His face was alight, alive with wondering mirth, and Death could only stare at him for a moment, dazzled in the face of such continuing vitality.

He only became aware that control had slipped beyond his grasp when he felt hands on his bare skin and the sliding pressure of fingers against his spine. The laughing grey eyes were on his face and between the boy’s parted lips and teeth, he could see the tip of his pink tongue.

For less than a mortal’s dying heartbeat, he drew back, one hand bracing himself over the boy, wondering if it was madness to succumb.

A slim, soft-skinned hand slid down his cheek and he felt fingertips brush his lips.

Arching up to him, the boy murmured something nonsensical, his lips following the path of his fingertips, little more than a sweep of flesh-to-immortal-flesh contact, so long unwanted, so long denied, so powerful that Death let the hunger take him.

Sweeping the boy into his arms, he kissed him with passion and hunger of centuries without, a hand twisting into pale gold hair, even as the boy’s nimble fingers pushed his coat from his shoulders and off his arms.

So willing and wanting, the boy let Death’s hands guide him, his blood-red shirt cast aside, forgotten, Death’s mouth bruising and biting, marking the perfect pale flesh, as the boy moaned and arched beneath him.

His shirt was tugged loose, pulled and pawed until he rocked back on his knees and shrugged it off, shaking it aside. Death threw back his head with a hissing groan. He pulled the boy’s still-warm body upright against his own icy one, his eyes falling shut, and he bared his throat as the boy’s mouth pressed to it.

One of his hands was still sunk in the youth’s pale gold hair, the other fast about the boy’s narrow waist, another hiss escaping him as nails raked the length of his back, making his spine arch.

He felt the bite against his collarbone, a sting of delicious pain, and the lips moving in a pattern on his throat and shoulders, his fingers kneading at the boy’s scalp as his hips shifted, as if they were controlled by a higher power still.

The boy shifted in his grasp, sliding up his body, somehow drawing his legs from beneath Death, until his mouth came level once more and he claimed a kiss, one hand sliding over Death’s shoulder, down his back, while the other plunged into Death’s hair once more, his nails raking across Death’s scalp.

With a snarl against the boy’s lips, Death twisted his fist, mercilessly pulling the boy’s head back. The boy panted wildly against his lips, ever breath as scorching as lava, but his eyes were alight and his swollen lips were grinning, and as he met Death’s eyes, he rolled his hips against Death’s.

No boy of decent breeding should ever be able to move like that. The thought was a fleeting one, lost in the wave of sensation as the boy’s hand slipped to the base of his back, making it impossible for him to ignore the press from both sides.

The tip of that pink tongue touched the boy’s bottom lip and he was panting, grinding himself against Death, his fingers kneading, pawing, wanton.

With a low growl, part hunger, part caution, Death snared the boy’s wrists, dragging his hands away, holding them fast. His eyes flashed and he drew the powers granted to him in his domain about them, dispersing with the boy’s clothing.

Grasping the boy’s slim wrists, he forced the youth down onto his back on the bed, lowering his head to lap the essence of death from the boy’s throat. His lips didn’t touch his skin, they had no need to, but he could taste it, could taste the power in that mark, power he had not tasted since...

His eyes darted across the boy’s ecstatic features and he understood the boy’s urgency. He should be angry at such deception, but it was not such a crime. His own mouth, smiling now, returned to the boy’s, his hips pressing down against the boy’s.

Beneath him, the youth arched, splaying his lean thighs. His hips lifted wantonly and Death succumbed afresh, freeing one of his hands to hold the boy’s narrow waist, his other pinning the slim wrists above the boy’s beautiful head.

The boy whined softly, arching his neck and panting, his lips drawn back from his teeth as Death pressed against him, into him, sinking into the fire. His own cool breath was rapid against the boy’s throat as he panted, seared by the heat, his face pressing to the slim throat until he could, think, move, feel anything beyond it.

Beneath him, the boy shifted, squirmed, made it impossible to ignore him. He was biting his lower lip, rocking himself against Death’s belly, seeking some satisfaction, his eyes half-closed and his breath shivering intoxicatingly.

Dragging his cheek against the boy’s, Death drank in every quivering exhalation, his lips near resting against the boy’s until it seemed that wouldn’t be enough for the hungry youth, his mouth surging against Death’s wanting and claiming.

Freeing the boy’s wrists to sink his hand into that fine, pale gold hair, Death felt those warm hands on him once more, even as their bodies met, cold and warm, mortal and never-dying, young and eternally ageless.

About them, his control forgotten, the world became a kaleidoscope of shapes and mute colours, blending together as his mouth claimed the boy’s and long-fingered hands clung to his hair and his shoulders and raked red scores on his back.

Time meant next to nothing in this place, nor space, nor any other thing as Death gave himself over to pleasure and hunger, losing himself entirely in the boy who was so willing to be lost in.

Only after they had collapsed together, breathless and sated, the boy’s lean limbs twined around him in the shapeless blackness, did he raised his head to gaze fully at the young face beneath him, still smiling, even now.

His forearms resting on either side of the boy’s head, the fingers of his right hand were still tangled in the spill of pale gold hair. “Did you get what you came for?” he murmured, shifting his other hand to trace a fingertip along the boy’s cheekbone.

Tilting his head to nip on the end of Death’s finger, the boy sucked on the offended fingertip softly, then slid his tongue over the very tip, drawing a pleasant sigh from Death. “Did you take what you wanted?” he murmured, slanting a knowing look through his lashes.

“What do you think, you wicked brat?” Death replied, chuckling. He slid his finger between the boy’s lips again, running it along the his teeth. “You knew I wouldn’t have you long.” For an instant, the boy looked startled and Death laughed quietly. “I may not seem it, but I am not entirely stupid, Master von Krolock.”

The boy nipped his finger, then made a face. “You didn’t know,” he said, a pout creeping onto his lips.

“Not at once, no,” Death agreed, tracing his fingertip lightly along the petulant lower lip, his own lips smiling slightly. “But had I not, time would have held sway on you from the mortal side and you would have been torn away to your wretched half-death before we had finished here.”

That - it seemed - was a revelation for the boy.

He frowned thoughtfully.

“That would have been terrible,” he decided firmly, the hand that was still wound in Death’s hair sliding down his cheek and drawing his mouth down for another kiss. It was followed by another, and another, until Death forced himself to move, rolling onto his side and off the boy, who whined a protest.

“Terrible as it would have been,” Death noted, laying a hand lightly on the boy’s smooth stomach, fingertips moving softly. “It will not be as terrible as if you keep your father waiting for you any longer.”

He gestured with his free hand, and as if they were seeing through a misted window, a scene shimmered into view; the chapel, the kneeling Graf hold his son’s body, the moonlight, the blood turned indigo. And while the boy’s body and even the candle-flames that guttered on the edges of the vision were motionless, the Graf arched an eyebrow and canted his head slightly.

The boy uttered a merry laugh, rolling into Death’s arms and kissing him once more, then he was bounding off the bed, twirling, his golden hair flying. “I suppose I should dress, shouldn’t I?”

Sprawling on his side, Death raised himself on one elbow, a strand of his hair falling before his eyes. He brushed it aside idly and his mouth curved up as he drew the boy’s clothes about him, one piece at a time, the masking almost as alluring as his nudity had been.

The boy laughed again, so readily, his grey eyes dancing.

Running back to the shadowy shape of the bed, he threw himself on it and scrambled across the cover, tumbling Death onto his back and kissing him once more. Pale gold hair tickled across Death’s cheeks and he cuffed the boy lightly across the head.

“Go,” he said, laughing. “Your father has a temper and I do not doubt he will use it.”

The boy pouted. “You do not love me at all.”

“Love you? Of course I don’t.” Death sat up and kissed the youth deeply until the young Master von Krolock’s eyes went glassy. Releasing him, he held his gaze as the bed beneath them faded, leaving them standing on nothingness once more. “What would the world be like if Death could love?”

The boy blinked several times, then grinned. “Oh, I think I could find out,” he said, then turned to skip away.

Not, before, however, Death warmly slapped that firm backside.

“Enjoy your death, Herbert,” he murmured.

Turning to look at Death, walking backwards into the vision of reality, Herbert von Krolock’s smile would have made saints blush. “Oh, I intend to my darling,” he purred, running a hand down his chest. Lifting his other palm, he blew a kiss at Death, his eyes dancing. “I will see you soon.”

Then he was back where he would eternally remain, born the son of a man and eternally damned as the son of a vampire.

And as Death drew his own garb about himself, he watched father and son embrace, and as one, they looked at him and smiled triumphantly. And as one victor to another, he bowed his head in honourable defeat.

Turning away, he let the vision fade.


	5. Obligatto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Herbert von Krolock does not like to be ignored

The boy was stubborn.

Death watched from the shadows, amusement curving his lips. He was always willing to appreciate a master craftsman at work. Some deaths did not warrant his full attention, but the boy ensured that he could not ignore them.

After nineteen years of ruthless and experienced mortality, it seemed that a half-death was more than beneficial for the boy. He could find prey regardless, his beauty and charm luring more to their violent ends than Death cared to recollect.

His victim of choice was as always young and strikingly handsome. This one, however, seemed more willing than many others had. Despite the bonds that stretched his arms out, he was arching his neck towards the von Krolock boy’s hands.

Herbert’s fingers were fastened about the youth’s slender neck, just enough to hold him on the brink of consciousness, yet loose enough that they would not yet be fatal. He knew his moments. He had practised and played and tested every manner of death that would summon the Master of that domain to him.

Straddling his plaything’s thighs, his hands lost in capacious sleeves, the vampire panted needlessly against the unfortunate youth’s mouth. His eyes were dark with focus and hunger and he rocked his hips in syncopated rhythm with the youth beneath him.

The youth whimpered, his fingers grasping at air, his lips parted and eyes half-closed. He was shaking, but only from desire. There was no fear in this one, not yet, and the vampire had hardly even begun to lead the game to the final moment.

One of the pale hands dragged up his throat, pressing long fingers to the youth’s shivering lips, and the vampire’s other hand dropped down to retrieve a long, exquisite sash from his waist, the colours vivid and garish, yet entirely him.

Sliding his fingers along the youth’s cheekbone, he brought his mouth against the mortal boy’s, his other hand drawing the rich cloth up. The vampire draped it loosely around the youth’s neck while he was distracted by the ever-deepening kisses that were pressing him back against the headboard of the bed.

Capturing the tasselled ends in one hand, Herbert slowly started to draw on the cloth, his eyes hooded, as his lips utterly possessed the boy’s mouth. Death’s eyes slipped from the kissing lips to the cloth drawing tighter and tighter by degrees about the boy’s throat. Beneath Herbert’s body, his hips were jerking wantonly, and the vampire shivered pleasantly.

“Mein Herr…” the youth whimpered against the vampire’s lips, then yelped as his head was tugged back.

“Hush, little one,” the vampire whispered, kissing his jaw and chin. The boy shuddered, his eyes rolling, and Herbert slowly and deliberately twisted his hand into the long strip of cloth before the boy’s chest.

A weak gasp fell from the boy’s lips and Death flexed unseen fingers at the sight of the cloth biting into the youth’s throat. His young body was tense, on the very edge of hunger and madness and want, and Herbert played him as a Master musician would an instrument.

Drawing his hand from the boy’s dark, sweat-sodden hair, Herbert traced his fingertips down the youth’s body in a sensuous pattern that made the boy’s already ragged breaths become even weaker and more rapid.

And even as he did so, his other hand continued to twist into the sash, gradually drawing it tighter, until his fist was entirely bound in the rich fabric. It was pressed close beneath the boy’s throat as his other hand moved on the youth’s body.

The boy’s face was flushed from want and breathlessness, his dark lashes falling against his cheekbones, and the vampire was watching him, his grey eyes gleaming, the tip of his tongue visible between his teeth.

The vampire’s golden head rolled back when hands touched his hips, slipping over to smooth against his thighs. “You have my attention,” Death murmured. His usual melancholy garb had been forgotten and flesh pressed to immortal flesh.

Uttering a sound that was part moan, part purr, Herbert arched his head back, pressing against Death’s chest. “I’ve been waiting,” he whispered, tilting his face towards Death’s, his lips grazing Death’s jaw softly.

Neither of them paid heed to the stifled whimper from the boy before them as Death let the vampire youth’s mouth meet his possessively, hungrily, as one who has been starved for the seven decades of half-death.

Letting his hands move, Death pressed against Herbert’s back, lifting the back of his shirt, until their bodies were so near that the vampire’s chill and his own were so closely united that it was impossible to tell the one from the other.

With a roll of his hips, he drew a groan from the young vampire, slim hips rising beneath his hands, rocking and in turn pressing against the hips of the boy beneath them, whose feeble twitches went unnoticed.

Sliding his palms over Herbert’s hips once more, Death caressed the smooth plane of flesh between hip and groin, kneading thighs, then slipping beneath the low-slung ruffles of the vampire’s oversized shirt, his hands deftly seeking and touching.

His tremor of pleasure was repeated in the mortal beneath them and Death growled softly against the vampire’s throat, one hand splaying on Herbert’s belly, holding him still while his other hand moved and his hips slowly, lazily, shifted.

Herbert’s head fell back against Death’s shoulder, his hands flexing around the sash that was clutched between his fingers. Breathless sounds of satisfaction tripped from his lips, his hips quivering under Death’s ministrations. Pained gasps were escaping the boy before them and Death drew his lips from the vampire youth’s throat to turn pale eyes to those of the boy trapped before them, whose death was holding him close.

Glazed with desire, his face darkened with blood, the boy’s eyes went wide at the sight of Death, who smiled, reaching around the vampire to pull the unfortunate youth’s mouth against his, as he drove himself hard and fast against Herbert.

The boy’s cry was cut off by a savage crack as Herbert’s hands jerked against the sash as the vampire came apart before Death.

Tasting the mortal’s end and releasing the boy’s head, letting it loll at a strange angle, Death touched his own tongue to his lower lip. A sound of pleasure escaped him, his hips sliding against Herbert’s body.

Moments later, spent as the vampire was, Death held Herbert close to his chest.

“You waited, hmm?”

“Mm.” Herbert tilted his head to claim a kiss, whining indignantly when it was denied. It turned into a dangerous growl when Death’s hand fisted into his pampered hair, pulling his head back mercilessly.

“You are a spoiled little brat, Master von Krolock,” Death whispered silkily against the vampire’s jaw.

“Often been said,” Herbert half-hissed the words, untangling his hands from the sash to reach back and grasp Death’s hips, holding the immortal being hard against his body, his own hips shifting wantonly.

“And you always get what you want, I suppose?” Death dragged his tongue up Herbert’s throat.

Herbert’s throat shifted as he laughed. “Eventually,” he purred. His head lifted as Death’s teeth grazed his throat and he shuddered pleasantly. “Seventy years… I have to admit I was losing patience…”

“Stubborn brat,” Death murmured with a chuckle. “This one was exceptional.”

He felt the vampire’s eyes slant down towards him. “Only this one?”

“A dozen near deaths with one boy?” Death granted Herbert a brief kiss, one finger uncurling from Herbert’s hair to trace the nape of the vampire’s pale neck. “That takes a skill the likes of which few can manage.”

“I knew you were watching!” Grey eyes were bright with triumph, which did not fade even when Death tensed his hand in the young vampire’s hair. Twisting in Death’s arms, his body shifting, he pressed his palms against Death’s shoulders, his fangs bared as he grinned.

Death raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps.”

Herbert only laughed and launched himself forward, tumbling them both on the crumpled sheets and blankets, fighting for purchase as aggressively as Death as he was flipped over and pinned down.

“Oh, I adore you, darling!” he exulted, pulling Death’s mouth onto his. His legs were wrapped around Death’s hips, his hands sinking into Death’s hair and he laughed again, his eyes alight. “So full of resistance and denial.”

That alone made Death pull back. “I have succumbed once,” he murmured. “This will be the last time.”

“Until I can find you, darling,” Herbert wriggled enticingly, his pale lips curling in a childish pout. “You keep on hiding from me, mein Herr.”

“Look if you will,” Death whispered against those pouting lips. “But you will never find me, little boy.”

Over Herbert’s body, Death allowed his to fade into his own realm, leaving Herbert’s body wound round nothing more than air and shadows. His limbs sank and he closed his eyes, arching as if caressed by an invisible presence.

“A challenge, mein Herr?” he whispered, running his hands down his bare chest and further still. His body curved magnificently and Death’s hand mimicked the path of the young vampire’s. “So be it.” His body moved, arching and shifting wantonly. “I _will_ find you if it takes me eternity.”

And under Death’s eyes and his own hand, he brought himself to pieces once more.


	6. Scherzetto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two circles in Death's existence overlap

In the thundering depths of his rage, Death’s domain became infinite, terrifying and black. What boundaries sometimes seemed visible stretched outwards, dark fury suffocating every visible yard of the emptiness about him.

Alone, always alone, he stalked through the shadows, away from the woman who refused to be his, despite her words of years before.

Elisabeth, his Elisabeth, was married to an empty-headed idiot who didn’t know what he was dealing with or who his wife truly was. The heavy necklace that her husband had given her was nothing more than the noose that would suffocate her.

But she had accepted it and denied him!

With a snarl, Death summoned up bleak spirits, shadows of mortal lives trapped forever in his control. He tore them apart, but even that and their screams did nothing to ease his temper.

Throwing back his head, he screamed his rage. His world roiled around him, echoing his voice. How dare she? What right did she have to choose a mortal fool like that over him? What could the boy offer that Death could not crush with a thought?

Panting savagely through clenched teeth, he gestured, opening a window into her mortal world. Mortals hands were touching mortal flesh, and his own hands shook with anger as he watched, nothing hidden from him, even in the darkness of the marital bed chamber.

Concealed in shadows, he knelt on the edge of the bed, and stretched out an unfelt hand, wrapping it around the boy’s damned throat. Hissing through his teeth, his eyes blazing, he watched the boy’s exultant face as his body met Elisabeth’s.

It would be so simple, to squeeze, to end his life, to prove to the little bitch what a mistake she had made.

Beneath the boy, Elisabeth made a sound that made Death groan in response. His eyes slid from the boy to her. Her skin was pale on the sheets and her eyes closed, her lips parted. Around her, her hair was loose and his other hand sank into the long waves, curling them around his gloved fingers.

She looked more perfect in that moment than he had ever seen her before.

“Elisabeth,” he whispered, drinking in her face, her body, her passion as hungrily as if it had been given to him.

And she heard him.

Somehow, she knew, heard, her eyes flying wide.

Drawing back into darkness, he was hidden from her, but he saw the flash of want in her eyes as he had seen it when he had offered her his hand at her wedding ball. His upper lip curled and he dropped his other hand from the boy’s throat to slide it in a merciless grip along her thigh, echoing his touch only hours earlier.

She arched, as she had then. Moaned.

A growl of satisfaction rolled from his throat.

She was still his, even here, even on her wedding night, in the arms of a mortal boy, even as she denied him. Her eyes were squeezing shut against his moving hand and he saw her jerk against his fingers, ignorant of the boy’s hapless pawing.

“Yes,” he hissed through his teeth, cupping her sex, letting his chill sear her heat, making her cry out as the boy fumbled clumsily with her breasts.

Even as the boy bent his head to kiss her mouth, Death lowered his head too. His lips traced the curve of her ear and her name purred against the lobe made her gasp against her husband’s mouth.

Moving, little more than shadow and wraith, his body swept through the boy’s. His fingers grasped her thighs, forcing them wide, hands slipping down even as the boy’s hesitated by her knees. Let her know it was him, let her know who she wanted.

And when the boy placed himself, no virgin, but no master, Death hid himself within the youth. He felt the heat through the boy, felt the boy hesitate, and in that instant, he let his voice echo a whisper around the room.

“Elisabeth...”

Her eyes flew wide open and as the boy stooped to kiss her, as his body sank into her, Death’s face moved forward, masking the boy’s face with his own. Her cry was smothered by the combined heat and chill of Death and the boy’s lips covering hers, and if she felt pain, Death didn’t care.

The boy, however, seemed to.

He pulled his lips from hers and stared down at her nervously, and as her eyes darted to the boy’s face, Death concealed himself once more. He saw the startled confusion, the fear giving way to something else, and he smiled like a tiger, knowing whose face she would think of when she remembered the first sensation of a man’s body within her.

His laughter rippled around the chamber, unheard by the ignorant youth. Elisabeth’s eyes were wide, staring, and he saw her fingers clutch the boy’s arms as if he could shield her. Then she pulled him down, kissing him as if trying to make amends for an untold sin, for something she had thought.

And Death knew exactly what it was.

Oh, she was his. She always would be, no matter how she denied it.

Withdrawing into his own domain, he watched her eyes searching beyond her young husband and he smiled, amused. Even now, she would wonder if he had been present or if it was only her lust-fuelled imagination playing tricks on her.

His anger cooled, he watched as the young Emperor took his pleasure and as his bride feigned her own, too lost in her anxious thoughts. That she took no satisfaction from her husband made Death smile again, his own hand roaming his body, his own desire for her rising.

He could have her and would, but not now. He would make her wait.

Sealing the opening to their world with a gesture, he closed his eyes. Though mortal in shape, in substance his body was so much more, but there were some things that even he did not deny himself. There were also those who would never deny him, and with his mind he summoned them, his faithful ones, his angels.

There was no response.

Drawing a shuddering breath as his hand stilled on skin bared to nothing more than his imaginings, Death’s eyes opened slowly, his upper lip curling. So, they too denied him, then?

His mind touched theirs, each one, and surprise replaced ire at the flares of emotion in his creatures that did not feel, nor care.

Drawing his realm about him like a cloak, he stepped through nothing to the place where they were gathered and felt the emotions rise in power as he emerged. They were together, a moving mass of golden hair, wings and limbs, the tallest of their number wrapping his wings about the others.

“Aerean.” Though his voice was soft, a dangerous growl, Death saw the flurry of wings, angels stirring in fear and trepidation. The chief of his angels lifted his proud head from the tangle of limbs and golden hair.

“Master,” he whispered. There were the beginnings of fear in Aerean’s deep blue eyes, but there was something more, an emotion that none of his angels ever showed save in his presence: desire.

Several other faces had turned towards Death now and he heard the whispered rustle of wings shifting nervously, though each of them matched Aerean’s expression, the lesser of their number the more fearful.

“Oh, darlings!” A voice that was starkly familiar to Death suddenly broke the fear-filled stillness. “Why did you stop?”

Death’s eyes blazed with black ire and he saw Aerean shy back, though his wings remained wrapped about his companions.

Until, that is, a pair of pale fingers parted the wings enough for Death to see the glinting grey-green eyes, then the hidden party threw Aerean’s wings aside, a broad smile on his face.

“Darling!” Spilled on the bodies of three half-sprawling, half-kneeling angels, supported by another two, and with Aerean’s broad arms around his nude torso, Herbert von Krolock beamed at him. “I wondered when you would arrive!”

It was impossible. Never, not in all his millennia of existence had it been possible. No one, be they unliving or undead, was able to enter his domain without his leave, especially not an arrogant vampire youth.

Under his disbelieving scrutiny, the boy reached up, pulling Aerean’s mouth down onto his and, to Death’s furious shock, the angel pulled the boy closer, while the hands of others stroked the boy’s generously disrobed body.

“Stop.” The word broke from his lips with the force of a blow and the angels froze, eyes warily on their Master, though the impertinent brat of a half-dead boy took the opportunity to kiss Aerean’s throat, scratching the pale flesh with his fangs.

Aerean uttered a weak moan, his hand sinking into the vampire’s pale hair, his other hand raking across the boy’s bare chest.

Stalking across the space between them, Death threw aside the closest of the angels, grabbing the boy by the throat and jerking him away from Aerean. Pulling the boy’s face close to his own, he was half-snarling, half-panting.

“What are you doing here, un-living one?” he hissed through his teeth.

Grey eyes gazed up at him, and pale lips curled upwards. The boy arched his neck into Death’s grip as his tongue slid along his lower lip. “I told you I would find you, mein Herr,” he breathed. “And your beautiful pets are so... welcoming.”

Death’s furious eyes flicked to Aerean, the chief guardian of his domain and the one who had clearly allowed this travesty. The angel was panting faintly, his masculine form as lustful as a mortal’s, and only then did Death notice just where the brat’s insolent hands were occupied.

The boy’s lips twitched impishly as Death’s fingers tightened on his throat. “Are you not pleased to see me, mein Herr?” he whispered, his voice thickened, roughened by Death’s merciless hold.

“You have breached my domain,” Death snarled, catching the boy’s hair and jerking his head back. “You have intruded where you should not.” His face was a mere breath from the boy’s. “You will find I am not so indulgent of your games here.”

If he had expected anything, it was not that the boy would grab him and pull him into a kiss. Nor that his angels would move beneath the damned brat, making it impossible to ignore the boy’s body rolling against his.

Fangs bit on his lower lip and Death growled, catching the boy’s hands, forcing them down. His eyes blazed black ire and he threw savage looks at his angels. “Hold him,” he hissed through his teeth. There was enough of a hesitation to make him lash out at one of them, sending the small angel spinning. “I said,” he snarled. “Hold him.”

Half a dozen hands emerged, grasping at the youth’s arms and torso, holding him fast on his bed of angels. Grey-green eyes glittered. “Oh, had I known you liked to tie me down, I would have prepared...”

The blow snapped his head to one side, splitting his lower lip. The boy slowly licked the trickle of blood, though spots dotted his pale hair, then turned his head back to face Death, his smile deliberate and wicked.

“Why?” Death hissed, his fingers biting into the boy’s chest, as if he intended to rip the ribs from the flesh.

Arching against the grips of the angels, writhing provocatively, Herbert’s lips parted as he tried to claim a kiss. Death snarled at him again and the vampire moaned with a pleasant shiver.

“I wanted to find you,” he whined, shifting, one leg dragging against Death’s until an angelic hand caught it. “I promised, after all.”

That alone made Death pause.

It was a promise made almost a century and a half earlier. Had he really forgotten how persistent this insatiable little brat was? Had either of them really believed the boy when he had said it?

“How?” he snapped, pressing his hand to the boy’s throat, squeezing hard enough to mar the marble-white skin.

The boy’s golden lashes fluttered over his grey eyes and he bit his lower lip. “Vati appreciates a challenge,” he whispered coyly. “And he thought that some of your pets were quite enticing as well.”

Death’s lips drew back from his teeth. Of course. The boy’s father, the dark sorcerer, had grown in power. He had witnessed it. He had stood by, gathering von Krolock’s victims, watching the blood soaking the proud, damned vampire’s conscience.

“He will not do anything so foolish again,” he promised, his voice the hiss of rage.

The boy laughed softly. Death felt the sound against his fingertips, still pressing so mercilessly against the boy’s throat.

“Darling, don’t do anything silly,” the brat whispered, though there was a knowing gleam in his eyes. “You wouldn’t want to make my father angry, would you?”

“Your father is nothing to me, little boy,” Death whispered venomously, his nails raking furrows in the boy’s skin.

“No.” The brat arched with a moan. “But the open gateway to your domain is.”

Death’s fingers twitched convulsively. There were less than a handful of ways that his domain could be accessed, and only with the presence of himself or those angels who had - until now - been utterly loyal to him alone.

His mind swept through his domain and he knew at once the identity of the only one of his angels to be absent; Myrlea, the smallest and most delicate of his creations, the Gatherer of Children. She attended on the infants whose lives were forfeit, lost or stolen from them before they reached their tenth years.

Casting his mind beyond his world, Death saw the unfortunate creature and her dark captor. His angels had not been given mortal form nor flesh in the mortal world, serving as guardian shadows, yet somehow, Myrlea was bound to mortality, her flesh flushed and scored by teeth and nails, her wings crushed beneath her.

Beneath him, the vampire shifted impatiently. “Mein Herr, you are being such a cruel host to me!” he whined. Death’s jaw clenched and with a flick of mind and curl of his lip, he watched Aerean’s hand close over the boy’s mouth.

“I could kill you now,” he whispered venomously, watching those grey eyes and seeing none of the fear he wanted. “Not just this half-death you wanted, but your utter death. You would be nothing.”

The moan the boy uttered was nothing short of sexual, his eyes closing. His body undulated and Death could hardly ignore how the brat was reacting.

With a flick of his head, he directed Aerean’s hand away and before the boy could open his eyes, Death backhanded him so viciously that the bones in his neck clicked ominously.

“Oh...” It was no cry of pain.

Death repeated his blow savagely, jerking the boy’s head the other way. Blood spattered the gold and emerald wings spread beneath the brat and Death sank his fingers into the pale, silken hair, twisting that face upwards, his lips pulling back from his teeth in a snarl.

His lips trembling into a groan, the vampire’s tongue pressed between his fangs and he was panting faintly, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. His eyes slowly opened and he shot a glittering look at Death.

“You... you said...” he whispered, his words blending together so much that Death had to lower his head to better hear. “You said you would never love.” His bright eyes gleamed maliciously and the vampire laughed faintly. “A girl.”

Fury descended. Death’s fingers wrapped around the brat’s insolent throat, squeezing until the laughter was choked off, and still the boy smiled, writhing against him. The pale legs broke free of the angels and Death felt them wrap around his waist, pulling him into full contact with the boy.

“I should kill you now,” Death whispered.

A pale tongue touched equally pale, bloodied lips, and the brat nodded.

Would it work, if the boy’s slim body met a messy end by Death’s own hands? Or would he be trapped with a vampire as his eternal tormenter when he accepted death? And was that why he was so eager?

Prying his hands from the brat’s throat, Death snarled again, striking the boy again.

Letting his head fall back against the golden waves of one of the angel’s hair, the boy groaned, rolling his hips up against Death’s. With a hissed command, the angels caught the boy’s arms fast, pulling them taut, and Death lowered his head over the boy’s, until strands of his hair brushed the boy’s blood-streaked cheeks.

Threats had not worked.

Nor, it seemed, had violence.

That left one avenue of punishment for the carnal brat.

“Your game was in vain,” he said softly, his hands braced on either side of the boy’s head. Grey-green eyes darkened to olive opened and he watched them watching him. There was fire in them, as always, but the boy would not have the day, not this time. “You are not wanted.”

Those eyes slowly blinked, thin, pale lashes shielding them for a moment, then opening again. The boy made no reply, though his body arched against the angels, testing their grips, his lips parted slightly.

The thighs about Death’s hips tightened, and the motion of the brat’s hips could have rivalled a serpent. His eyes remained on Death’s, gleaming beneath the pale gold of his lashes.

Damn the boy.

If he had not gone to his Elisabeth, if he had not seen her, if he had not touched her...

“She uses him,” the brat whispered, as if reading his mind, and Death went rigid, fresh fury searing through him. “Her husband, that little boy.” His voice was purred poison. “If she knew what she was missing, she would crawl on her belly through fire to reach you...” Hips rolled enticingly. “I would.”

“You dared to look?” A fist twisted into the brat’s hair so tightly that gold strands came away between Death’s fingers and the boy uttered a whimper.

“Me? Watch you? Oh, no, darling,” he mewled, tugging his arms uselessly against his angelic restraints. “That would be unforgivably naughty. You do the watching, remember.” He arched his elegant neck upwards, his cheek brushing against Death’s twitching one, and whispered, “And anyway, Vati told me.”

Death lashed out with a savage snarl. The blow seemed to daze the damned boy, his grey-green eyes glazing, and Death felt breaths hissing between bared teeth, his hands shaking with fury.

The dark sorcerer, his greatest failing, the one human he had wanted to crush into dust, the one human who had slipped through his fingers. He had seen. He had spoken of it. He knew.

And he had left his son at Death’s mercy in Death’s domain with that knowledge.

Between the boy’s parted lips, his tongue slipped out to sweep away the trickle of blood that was gathering on the marred surface, the softness split against fangs and Death’s merciless fist.

His eyes barely cracked open, his lashes tangled together, the gleam of his eye slid to look at Death, but there was no wariness or fear, or none that Death could see, and that made him even more angry.

They had defied him, time and again, and now, this brat and his damned half-dead father had invaded his domain, his sanctuary, tearing open the barrier around his world. It was a reminder of what those who chose to fight him could do, and knowing that these two had succeeded, then another could.

If they had will enough.

If she had will enough.

Already, she had defied him once, taking her lusts and using the idiot mortal to be rid of them and of him. That was what she had done, so why couldn’t he do the same thing? Here he had a victim, one of the few who had fought him in his grasp, that he could do whatever he willed to, in his domain, without restraint.

“Hold him,” he growled again, his eyes fixed on the boy’s face. “Fast.”

What hands hadn’t been occupied slid over the boy’s flesh like a snare. His thighs lean were mercilessly dragged from Death’s sides, his limbs splayed and his arms pulled taut. A long, pale hand caressed over his throat, strands of hair tangled between each digit as the fingers closed around his neck, holding him still.

His hands braced on the scarlet and sapphire wings beneath the boy’s pale gold hair, Death leaned over the brat’s face, his breaths shallow and rapid, his expression taut with hunger and rage.

Grey-green eyes were round and the uncertain surprise in them was convincing.

“Darling, I think you may be overreacting a little...”

“Silence him.” Death’s voice was quietly commanding, and he saw the indignation in the brat’s eyes as a hand closed over his mouth. It flinched instantly and Death’s eyes blazed at the angel whose hand it was.

Pain was gleaming in the small creature’s blue-grey eyes, sensation no doubt feeding back from its fellow’s suffering in the mortal realm, and from beneath the shaking hand, he saw a thread of pale fluid, a substance that served as the blood of his angels.

The brat’s eyes rolled up, his head arching as he pressed his mouth to the hand, and Death watched the spasm rip through the boy’s body. Whether it was pleasure or pain, he didn’t care. All he wanted was the damned boy to be silent, so he could take out his frustration.

The angel uttered a pitiably human sound, tearing its hand away, the flesh gashed down to the imprint of bones. Strands of what served as skin were caught between the brat’s fangs and his mouth was slick with the ichor, his unneeded breath coming in ragged, hungry pants.

“Oh, my darling... you must try that...” the boy moaned.

A dark look from Death sealed the wound on the unfortunate angel’s palm, and he reached down and sank his thumb into the brat’s throat, tearing through flesh with the ease of immortality, crushing the windpipe from within, stifling the brat’s words.

Grey-green eyes blazed with pain, lips trying to form airless words, protests perhaps, or pleas.

“I needn’t send you back to your world intact, half-dead one,” Death said softly, threat lacing every word. “I won’t kill you, but I don’t have to leave you whole.” He twisted his thumb, his lips curling sardonically as the boy tried to hiss. “Open your mouth, little boy.”

The brat’s lips twisted petulantly, but he complied.

Death slid his body up the brat’s, his clothing vanishing about him. “And I promise you,” he whispered as he brought himself to his knees over the boy. “That if you even consider biting me without my consent, the number of body parts you return without will rise considerably.”

Perhaps the boy had adjusted to the pain, but he had nerve enough to wrinkle his nose and stick his tongue out. The gesture was almost entirely lost as Death sank a hand into the brat’s hair, holding his head still, twisting his fingers ruthlessly.

“Put that tongue to better use, you brazen little brat,” he hissed, then pressed his hard shaft against the boy’s parted lips.

As the boy’s eyes flashed with indignation, his tongue, lips and teeth proved more than adequate a distraction. A jerk of Death’s head had his chief angel move behind him, Aerean’s hands a well-taught pleasure. And better to get him away from the boy’s face, and those enticing eyes and lips.

Behind him, Death felt Aerean’s hands slide up his arched back. His body bent over the boy, his spine was bared and firm fingers dragged back down, making him exhale a raw breath between his clenched teeth.

The hand that wasn’t tangled in the boy’s hair clenched against the feathers of the dark wings close to the brat’s crown, Death’s hips shifting. Other hands moved too, and he felt the boy moving as much as he could.

Closing his eyes, he let himself get lost in the sensation, wanting to forget about that bitch for a moment. Forget her face. Forget her eyes. Forget the way her body arched so beautifully under his hands. Forget her lips. Forget her warmth. Forget the fire in her eyes when she...

Hands that were not those of the angels grasped his backside, squeezing, nimble fingers sliding down the back of his thighs. The pressure was ruthless, bruising, the pain making his eyes snap open to stare at the face beneath him.

The brat’s eyes were half-closed, his lips swollen, hungry. His pink tongue darted, dragged and licked, his mouth sucking, his fingers grabbing, squeezing, scratching and clawing.

Against Death’s sides, over his chest and down the front of his thighs, Aerean’s hands roamed, pawing just as eagerly as the brat and Death felt lips moving against his lower back, the combination of hands and lips making him shudder with hunger.

Her face rose before him, imagining her in this position, imagining those lips that had refused him so cruelly being forced to take him like this. He thrust harder, his breaths quickening, hissing through his teeth, and he felt the boy shudder and jerk beneath him.

Behind him, Aerean uttered a sound and clutched at his thighs, and he felt the press of those lips lower and lower, felt the flare of Aerean’s wings as lust and passion seemed to flare through him as well.

About them, wings flurried and hands moved again, some angelic, two belonging to the half-living creature whose mouth was playing such wicked games with his not-quite-flesh, and Death lost himself in it.

His second hand twisted into the brat’s hair as he came apart. He threw his head back, his hair dampened with perspiration, an imitation of mortality in every way, his body shuddering with the force of his release.

Beneath him, the boy’s body jerked again and behind him, Aerean cried out, his long, delicate fingers sinking into Death’s flesh with such force that Death threw a snarl over his shoulder.

Wide dark blue eyes stared blindly at nothing. Aerean’s lips were parted and his wings were trembling about his upper arms. Against Death’s skin, his fingers were quivering and Death recognised, understood, his expression.

A flick of his eyes down Aerean’s body gave proof positive and Death snarled, turning his face back to the brat’s beneath him. Grey-green eyes were round with innocence, but his body twitched and Aerean groaned once more.

“You little heath...” His words trailed off as the boy did some interesting gymnastics with his skilful tongue. Sliding back from the brat’s distracting mouth, Death glared down at him.

The tip of the boy’s tongue delicately licked at his lips, his lashes fluttering, and Death felt a fresh growl rising as Aerean sank forward to rest his forehead between Death’s shoulders, his body pleasantly violated and sated.

Jerking fully upright, straddling the vampire’s chest, Death ignored the inelegant collapse of the angel behind him, sprawling across his brethren and onto the ground.

Rising sharply, forcing his lust-trembling body to comply to his will, Death growled at the brat, where he was still mercilessly restrained by the angels. His limbs splayed and his head rocking back against golden hair and a kaleidoscope of feathers, he was the embodiment of sexual desire, beautiful and passionate.

Wings were fluttering about him and Death could see the darkened glitter of half a dozen pairs of eyes, all looking from him to the brat who had been used and who had used one of their number.

It seemed their leader’s satisfaction had caused some envy among them. Aerean’s wings folded about him where he was slumped and he shivered with a low groan that was far from anguished, his hands sliding over his own chest.

Reaching down to twist a fist into Aerean’s pale hair, pulling him upright, Death wrapped his hand about the angel’s throat, his eyes on the brat. The vampire’s eyes flickered open and towards him and he saw the smug twitch of the bloody lips.

His cheek pressing against Aerean’s, Death’s fingers tightened on the angel’s long, slender throat. “Do what you will with him,” he murmured to the gathered angels, his own hand slipping beneath the heavy golden feathers of Aerean’s wing and sliding over the angel’s hip.

The hungry eyes stared at him, a split-second of disbelief freezing them, then they surged as one upon the boy. Like scavengers attacking a carcass, the brat was lost in a tangle of dozens of limbs, hands grasping, nails ripping, mouths assaulting, pale and crimson blood spattering amid cries of pain.

They were no angelic cries, these. Too lost in their hunger, they seemed oblivious to the physical damage they were doing upon one another. In the mass of limbs, the vampire brat cried out again and Death smiled slowly, wickedly, as his hand closed about Aerean, making the angel shudder.

Grey-green eyes found Death’s, wild, desperate, and above all else, stunned. Thrown on his face by those who had seemed so placid and so docile, he arched and cried out again, the beautiful sound of a body being violated in every way.

And when that cry was stifled by first lips, then by flesh, Death laughed, pulling Aerean’s slim form back against his chest. His hand caressed down over Aerean’s collarbone and wandered the planes of the angel’s torso and he felt the ragged pants beneath his palm, the rise and fall of the ribs that were human in form.

“You’re a wanton whore, Aerean,” he whispered, knowing that the angel’s lust was not fuelled by his touches alone. Though they were half-closed, the angel’s dark blue eyes were fixed on the vampire boy who was being devoured in every carnal way by his brethren.

“Master, he...”

The hand on Aerean’s chest slid upwards, fingering the rapidly shifting throat, then covering the angel’s mouth. “Don’t lie to me,” he whispered, teeth and lips grazing along Aerean’s jaw. His hand tightened and fingers bit into the angel’s cheek. “You could have denied him.”

As the brat’s body was tossed over, and his hands pinned to the floor before them, his pale hair spilling dangerously close to Aerean’s knees, the angel moaned, shaking his head beneath Death’s palm.

“You denied me for him, Aerean.” The whisper was as soft as his caress was hard and the angel shuddered in his grasp. Shifting his weight, Death’s words were a poisonous hiss against the angel’s ear. “Never again.”

Aerean pressed back against him, his wings enfolding his Master. Death smiled viciously against the angel’s throat and, as his body invaded the angel’s, Aerean’s cry of hungry pleasure was echoed by the brat’s cry of pain before them.

Death laughed again, satisfied.

 

______________________

 

How long the boy had been held in his domain, Death did not care or wonder.

It took some time until all of the angels slaked their enhanced lusts on the brat, who was left curled on the shadows of the ground, limp with exhaustion, his eyes closed and skin marked with bites, scratches and bruises.

Dismissing them, Death stood over the boy, watching as the slim limbs curled inwards and the boy pillowed his head on his arms, shivering. A quivering sigh of what may have been relief escaped him.

Despite himself, Death squatted down beside the boy.

In mortal terms, it had probably been hours of abuse wreaked on him by desire-fuelled angels, their intense emotions nudged by their Master’s, heightened out of his malicious ire, and the boy had suffered it. And with their pleasure, it had returned on their Master, something he had been unable to resist or ignore.

Grey-green eyes slowly broke open, bruised and cracked lips twitching into a weak smile. “Mein Herr,” he whispered in a voice dry and exhausted. “I hope that was to your satisfaction.”

Death gazed down at the young face of the only creature who chose to seek him out, and who - despite Death’s irritation when he was present - was able to provide a distraction, and an enthusiastic one at that. He had fought his way into Death’s domain and even now, he was smiling in the face of Death.

In truth, the brat wasn’t such terrible company. How many people would smile at him? How many people would willingly, happily, fight their way to his side to provide him with companionship in his solitude? He could think of no other who had even considered such a thing.

“You’re an idiot child,” he said quietly. With a fingertip, he drew several strands of hair away from a scratch that marred the brat’s cheek. The blood clung to them, tugging against the skin.

“It has often been said,” Herbert agreed faintly, though he found strength to tilt his head enough to kiss Death’s fingertip. Then, his head slid back to rest on his arm, his eyes closing. “But it was such fun.”

Death watched the fresh blood beading on the boy’s lips, which had cracked open with the effort of talking. He traced his fingertip against the boy’s lower lip, smearing the blood into a ruddy bloom.

“You can barely move or speak and you consider it fun?” He caught the vampire’s chin, turning the exhausted face back to his. The lashes flickered and the scarlet-stained lips twitched slightly. “Idiot child.”

“Mm.” The brat managed to lift one hand to touch Death’s bare wrist, his fingertips running along the tensed muscle of Death’s forearm, so softly. “Didn’t you enjoy it, mein Herr?” His voice was little more than a sleepy sigh. “It was so... pretty...”

There was no denying the truth of that. Despite the blood that still stained the boy and the feral wildness of his angels, it had been beautiful. Sinfully and perfectly beautiful in its savagery.

Sliding his arm under the vampire’s shoulders, Death half-lifted the brat against his chest and tilted the boy’s chin up with his other hand. “You know you ask the most foolish questions, von Krolock,” he said with a half-hearted sigh.

“Mm,” the boy murmured. “Idiot child... remember?”

Despite himself, Death laughed quietly. “How could I forget?” he replied. He gently touched the boy’s bruised lips, soothing them, then met the half-open grey-green eyes, curious. “Why?”

“Father says I was dropped on my head...” Herbert whispered against his fingertips.

“... what?”

“Why I’m an idiot,” Herbert murmured. “Dropped on my head. Jarred my brain, Vati says.” He yawned, tilting his head into Death’s hand. “Says the nurse was clumsy.”

Death stared at him, perplexed.

A grey-green eye cracked open and the boy giggled. “A joke, darling,” he mumbled, nestling closer to Death. One of his hands rose to trace the back of his fingers against Death’s chest. “Why did I come?” Death slowly nodded. “Because I like you.” He yawned again, widely, baring his fangs. “An awful lot.”

“No one likes Death.”

The pale pink tip of the boy’s tongue peeped between his cracked lips and he made a disdainful face. “So negative,” he mumbled, one fingertip idly drawing patterns on Death’s chest. “I like you.” He swatted Death’s chest lightly. “Silly darling.”

“Idiot child,” Death repeated. He lifted his hand and gazed at his fingertips for a moment. The tip of his forefinger broke open and he felt the vampire stiffen in his arms at the scent of immortal blood. Looking down at the boy, he allowed a single drop of dark liquid to drip onto Herbert’s parted lips.

With a moan that was hunger and wonder combined, Herbert arched as the ancient blood scorched his senses. Death watched him tremble and lowered his mouth to kiss the vampire’s shivering lips, smiling as Herbert clutched at him.

“Your father will be waiting,” he observed, his whisper light against the boy’s lips.

Grey-green eyed blinked dazedly at him. Fingers were gripping his shoulders, nails biting into his flesh. “Father...” he echoed, then nodded and clumsily tried to rise. His exhausted body denied him, and he sagged in Death’s hold.

Death curled his upper lip in mock-derision. “Always wanting a little more attention, you insatiable brat,” he said with a snort. Still, he slid his arms under the boy’s slim form and rose with the vampire cradled in his arms.

“Always,” von Krolock murmured, his head rolling to rest against Death’s shoulder.

Or that was Death’s first thought until fangs nipped his throat.

He almost dropped the impertinent little brat, who giggled again.

“This won’t be the last I see of you, will it?” Death said with what was meant to be a dark look at the brat’s dopily smiling face.

“I have eternity, darling,” the vampire murmured, his eyes half-closed. “What am I to do without a friend who will exist as long as I shall?” He patted Death’s chest again. “And you are awfully pretty.”

Death paused mid-step, looking down at the boy’s sincere, if drowsy face. “Friend?”

It was certainly not a word he had heard anyone use in relation to him before.

The hand on his chest rose, grasping his chin, and blood-stained lips touched his. “I told you I like you, you silly darling,” von Krolock mumbled, laying his head back down on Death’s shoulder. “You might be frightfully silly and have a rather hot temper, but you are quite lovely.”

Death stared at the boy, bewildered. “You have your own kind.”

“Yes,” the brat agreed. “But they’re all scared of me.” He wrinkled his dainty nose and made a face. “What fun can you have when they are all afraid of what you might do to them?”

“So you would befriend me because I’m not afraid of you?”

The vampire beamed up at him. “And because you are lovely,” he said brightly, his eyes opening a wider to show the glimmer of impishness that seemed to personify the boy. “And you let your pets play too. They were so shy before you arrived.”

Death’s steps faltered and he stared at the boy in disbelief.

The boy’s mouth was abruptly on his and he felt the nimble fingers sinking into his hair, the sudden burst of passion as wild as anything the angels had shown in the previous hours, the brat’s mouth hungry and claiming for a handful of seconds.

As the boy sagged back in his arms, licking his lips, Death shook his head. “You... took pleasure from the angels?”

Herbert licked his front teeth, gazing up at Death from beneath his lashes, his eyes dancing. “Darling, who wouldn’t?” he purred, rubbing his cheek against Death’s shoulder, his expression content.

Drawing the world around them, shielding his confusion at the un-living creature’s satisfaction in the shadows, Death shook his head. They emerged from the darkness into a twilight drenched building.

Against the walls, the motionless forms of a dozen infants were propped. Each had been slain in a different manner, each of them stained with blood. So this was how the brat had summoned Myrlea, with the deaths of a legion of children, where the Sorcerer had no doubt been waiting to snare her.

From the shadows at the fore of the building, a ruined Church of all places, a figure emerged. Tall, clad in clothing as dark as the shadows that clung to him, the Graf’s eyes met Death’s, gleaming.

“Herr Tod,” the Sorcerer murmured. There was an inexplicable, amused twitch of his mouth when his gaze dropped to his son, cradled so comfortably in Death’s arms. “I believe you are returning something of mine.”

With a snarl, Death opened his arms, dropping the brat, who uttered an indignant squeak of protest when he hit the splintered, dusty and ash-stained floor. “You stole something of mine, Sorcerer.”

“Borrowed, Herr Tod,” the Sorcerer corrected with an elegant, lazy gesture of one hand. Myrlea emerged from nothing beside him, flinching away from him, though her eyes were fixed on her captor wildly. “I felt I should indulge my child’s whims.” His sensuous lips curved in a smile and the angel trembled again. “After all, more than two centuries of unlife deserves something of a celebration, wouldn’t you say?”

Death growled viciously at the searing reminder of their triumph over him. A sharp gesture to his angel jerked Myrlea back to her place at his side, though not without a pitiable whine as she stared at the Graf. “I don’t appreciate the intrusion, Excellency.”

“As you may recall,” the Graf murmured, approaching with a slow, smooth tread. A whimper escaped Myrlea and Death felt her small hands grasp at his arm. “Neither did I, yet that did little to stop you.”

Death snorted, shaking Myrlea’s grasping hands off his arm. “Still gnawing at that old bone, Johannes?” he whispered, his voice thick with venom, and he saw the flash of emotion in the Graf’s dark eyes. It had been two and a half centuries since the Graf had uttered the fatal words of challenge, catching Death’s interest and yet, they both remembered the night.

Impressive, considering the Graf’s state that night.

Slowly sinking down, the Sorcerer slid his arms beneath his child’s sprawling body and scooped him up. “To life, Herr Tod,” the Graf replied softly as his son’s pale head came to rest on his shoulder. “May it be eternal.”

“For ever and ever,” the mumble from the half-asleep young vampire between them made them both look down at him. Herbert von Krolock giggled happily, nestling his head against his father’s shoulder. “Amen.”

“Kleines, you have a most inopportune sense of humour,” the Sorcerer sighed, drawing his cloak about his son’s bruised and naked body.

Grey-green eyes opened and the brat smiled warmly. “Thank you for a lovely present, Vati,” he murmured, then extended a hand to Death, pawing at his arm. “And thank you for...” He frowned, lost in thought. “Seven? Was it seven?”

Death flared his nostrils and nodded curtly.

“Thank you for seven angels, then.” He jerked Death’s arm and tugged him forward, his other hand tangling in blond hair and pulling Death’s mouth down on his before releasing him just as quickly.

Over him, his father shook his head. “What am I to do with you, Herbert?” he said with a quiet smile.

Grey-green eyes blinked innocently. “Make me a key?”

The Graf’s smile was subtle, but wicked, his eyes meeting Death’s. Death bared his teeth in a hiss and the Sorcerer arched an imperious brow.

“You do not wish to see my son again?” he said, the amusement in his words almost enough to rouse Death into striking him.

“Of course he does, Vati,” the brat interrupted, tugging his father’s cloak around him with a drowsy yawn. “He’s my friend.” His pale fingers tugged his father’s crimson cravat. “But I’m sleepy.” Like a child, he nestled trustingly against his father. “Take me home?”

“Your friend?” Black eyes met Death’s. Death shrugged helplessly. “Kleines, you have deplorable taste in friends.”

The brat made a face. “Well, you like girls, Vati,” he mumbled. He tugged at the tie again, petulantly. “I’m sleepy.”

Death’s upper lip curled. “Spoiled brat,” he snorted.

The Graf uttered a low, deadly growl, which was tempered by the boy’s happy burst of laughter.

“I’ll see you awfully soon, darling,” the boy promised merrily. “You’ve made Vati want to annoy you even more, so now, I think I will have a door to your world installed in my bedroom.”

“Consider it and I’ll...”

“Visit me more often?” the brat asked brightly.

Death looked up at the Graf and for a moment, there was a shared sigh and roll of their eyes. “Go,” Death said quietly, with a jerk of his head. “Get the brat to his bed before he makes himself seem more of a brainless idiot.”

“Bye bye, my darling!” the brat’s voice rang out of shadows as the Graf disappeared with his pale-haired eternal burden.

Shaking his head, Death sighed. Pulling Myrlea back into his domain and sealing his world against the unliving as best he could, he exhaled a breath and closed his eyes. “Idiot child,” he muttered.

And, it seemed, friend.


	7. Trio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death's playthings cross paths

“Oh, he is a pretty thing.”

Death closed his eyes, groaning. The hands that had slid under his skirt moved lazily and he flexed his fingers against the ruffled fabric. The damned brat always had perfect timing, picking the worst moments to have his father break into Death’s dominion.

After nearly three decades, it had become almost habit to stand and just wait for the moment the boy made his presence felt, most especially when he had some great matter to tend to. The Sorcerer and his whelp liked to make things worse, it seemed.

“What do you want?”

The giggle against the back of his neck said it all and Death let himself indulge in the wandering touches for a moment before pulling away. Turning, his glare fixed in place, he glowered at the von Krolock boy.

“You think I have nothing better to do than let you have what you want?”

The boy’s shirt was already open and his hair was rapidly being freed from the ribbon that held it back. Grey-green eyes blinked in surprise. “You think he would be better?” he asked, with a gesture to the figure Death had been watching.

The Crown Prince Rudolf of Austria.

No longer a little boy who had trustingly climbed into Death’s embrace and trusted his mysterious guardian. No longer the politically daring youth he had been when Death had last approached him, encouraging him to uprising.

But every inch his mother’s son in form, down to the proud eyes, even if he was nothing like her in heart and spirit. No one could ever rival his beautiful Elisabeth, so glorious in anger and even more in anguish as she soon would…

And Death realised he had made a mistake in taking his eyes from the vampire boy to look at the Prince as hands grappled his thighs beneath his skirts and an eager mouth latched onto him, that pale-haired head lost beneath the mass of silk and velvet.

Grabbing at shadows to support himself, Death threw his head back with a half-snarl, half-groan. The brat was far to willing to get on his knees and even more to do whatever he damned well pleased to Death, fearless and wicked.

From the corner of his eye, he could see the motion of his angels gathering around the Prince, readying themselves. His companion, the girl, was already being drawn closer and closer by them. Already, Aerean was guiding the Prince’s hands into the blows that would claim her life.

Death’s eyes closed, tension arching through him as the boy’s mouth moved, and he shuddered in pleasure.

And abruptly, the boy was gone.

Furious eyes burst open and Death looked down. Herbert von Krolock was still sitting at his feet, leaning back on his hands, smiling up at Death as if completely innocent.

“I thought you had better things to do,” he observed, licking his lips, which were no longer as delightfully occupied.

Death’s lips peeled back from his teeth in a vicious snarl. He caught the brat by his hair, jerking him half-upright, bringing their faces close together. Incorrigible as ever, the boy’s eyes were alight with delight and his fingers snared the edge of Death’s bodice, pulling them hard against one another.

“Deny me,” he hissed, then kissed Death with a savagery that belied his delicate appearance.

Brutalising the brat’s mouth with his own, until they were both bruised and the vampire was bloodied, Death flung him to the floor, his upper lip curling. “You hope for too much this time, von Krolock,” he sneered, then turned and stalked towards the invisible barrier that separated the unfortunate, crazed Prince of Austria from him.

Caught in a dizzying dance with the angels, Prince Rudolf was close to ready, only needing the final guiding hand. The combination of that knowledge and the brat’s wilful and skilful touches made him shiver with hungry anticipation.

Behind him, he knew the boy was still sprawled on the floor, but he could feel eyes the colour of ice on him. “I will await your return most eagerly, mein Herr,” the whisper rippled in the stillness, full of threat and promise.

Whirling around, his eyes flashing, Death struck the air, the blow carrying and knocking the boy flat. “Not this time,” he hissed. “I indulge your games, but this time I want you gone.”

Spilled onto his side, Herbert von Krolock tilted his face towards Death. His hair was in pale disarray around his features and he lifted himself on one elbow, blood beading and dripping from his mouth. Those bruised and broken lips parted in a hiss, the brat’s shirt slipping from one shoulder. “You allow me no fun, mein Herr.”

Abruptly, Death found himself squatted over the boy, twisting that bloodied face up towards his. He tilted his own chin up, baring his teeth. “I allow you your fun,” he whispered, twisting until he saw genuine pain blaze in the boy’s eyes. “You would do well to allow me mine.”

Pale fingertips touched his cheek, feather-light. “Ours, mein schöner Herr,” the boy whispered and despite himself, Death brought their mouths together. Blood and fire met between them and he lowered the brat to the floor.

“Not this time, Master von Krolock,” he said, his voice lower than a whisper.

Before the boy could voice an objection, Death pulled away, stepping into the dark hall of Mayerling. Moonlight slanted through the windows and Death flanked himself with a number of his angels, sweeping down the staircase and through the hall to the chamber where Prince Rudolf’s final dance was taking place.

In the swirl of skirts and flashing dark eyes, the Prince was stumbling, dazed and trembling. A body was sprawled on the floor, bloody and motionless, and the angels were impassively guiding the Prince’s steps.

By the pale, silvering light, the mortal’s anguished features were a picture of despair and Death smiled as Aerean took up the gun that would be the end of the Prince, extending it towards Elisabeth’s son in his long, pale hands.

It was time, time to see that face with those eyes that were hers but were not hers looking to him, expecting, needing, trusting.

Not his mother, never his mother, but it would be enough, it would show her that she was not everything to him.

One by one, the angels whirled the mortal around in a rapid waltz. His stained shirt was hanging open, his hair matted to his skin with sweat, his hands still stained with the blood of his late lover.

Even from a dozen paces away, Death could hear the desperate, despairing sobs. His tongue slid along his teeth at the thought of the taste of those tears. Moving closer, he snatched the gun and caught Rudolf around the waist, felt the arms clutch at him, the scent of grief-laced despair intoxicating.

As the striking face rose to his, those eyes - so familiar yet not the same - glassy with tears stared wildly at him and Death’s lips curved up wickedly. The mortal hand reached out to him, no, not him. To the gun. Death pressed it into Rudolf’s grasping hand, wrapping his cool fingers around the mortal’s warmer ones.

There was only the briefest moments of resistance, and those full lips parted in silent plea. Bringing the pistol to Rudolf’s temple, Death smiled and lowered his head, his lips claiming the mortal’s, tasting the despair as Rudolf’s finger tensed on the trigger.

The retort was a beautiful exclamation and the mortal collapsed in his arms.

Around them, the angels averted their eyes as Death lowered the mortal’s remains to the floor of the world where death would be eternal, where the fleshy shell no longer meant anything, fluid spilling from the shattered skull and pooling about his feet.

Wiping a smear of the dark liquid from his face with his fingertips, Death slowly licked it from his flesh, tasting the dregs of the mortal’s despair as he allowed the world to fade around him into the twilight place between his own world and the mortal one.

Bearing the mortal, the angels followed him, then scattered into the darkness and left him alone to watch for the final waking of the fallen Crown Prince with the eyes and wildness of his mother and the weak soul of his damned father.

Going down on one knee, Death reached out to touch the still face. There was so little of his mother in his features, but his lips and his eyes were wholly hers.

Death’s fingertips brushed the lashes and the high cheekbones to the tangled hair, his own gaze drifting to the full lips, parted now. Bowing his head, he kissed them once more, imagining the strands of fine hair he was touching were long, dark, hers.

Eyes that had been glassy opened, heavy, dazed as before.

Dragging the back of his knuckles down the Prince’s cheek, Death’s lips slid into a slow smile as he kissed the fallen Prince again, stifling a sound of desperate protest and anguish. Pleasure was rippling through him, a remnant of his encounter with the von Krolock brat mixing with the heady, triumphant success of claiming Elisabeth’s only son.

Broad hands clutched at his arms, but seemed undecided about whether they were pulling him closer or pushing him away. He almost laughed, giddy exultation tearing through him with shocking force and he froze, jerking his head up.

Staring beyond the blackness around him, ignoring the panting of the once-mortal who clung to him, Death growled. He felt a blaze of something, a sensation from his angels that none save two could understand; pain.

Apparently a third had just been introduced to it, combined with pleasure.

“Von Krolock.” Death spat the name, surging to his feet, the skirts swirling around his thighs. With one hand, he hauled Rudolf with him, stepping out of shapeless blackness to a sight that made him freeze.

Against the darkness that served as walls in his endless dominion, Aerean was pressed face-first. His fingers were hooking into shadows, his body arched, still clad in the dark green gown that had cruelly imitated the clothing of Rudolf’s mother.

And against his back, one hand mercilessly clasping the half-transparent, trembling golden wing, the other lost in the dark, beaded silks of the skirts, Herbert von Krolock was thrusting viciously against the moaning angel. His mouth was fastened against the angel’s throat and Death could see the pale stream rapidly staining the bodice of Aerean’s borrowed garb.

By Death’s side, the Prince exclaimed faintly, stumbling to one knee. Death didn’t need to look at him to know he was staring at the sight before them. Anyone with eyes would have been doing the same.

With a satisfied hiss, the vampire tossed his head back, proud and magnificent, the angel’s silvery-white blood spattering Aerean’s back and shoulders, even shimmering like diamonds on the pale shapes of his wings.

Aerean’s head rolled forward, pressing to the shadows between his shaking hands, whimper after wanton whimper escaping his tightly-closed lips, and the von Krolock brat laughed aloud, hissing his satisfaction at the air.

He wasn’t oblivious to them, Death knew, and it was proved when that head rolled lazily sideways and grey-green eyes flashed from beneath golden lashes through long strands of pale hair. His lips parted enough in a smile to show those fangs, still shimmering with ichor.

“Oh, you brought me something pretty,” he whispered, his voice hungry. Those eyes flicked to the kneeling Prince, and the smile turned even more sinful. “So many lovely toys, mein Herr...”

With a savage snarl, Death closed the distance between them, tearing the brat from his chief angel. Aerean staggered, then slumped, his wings unfolding to shield him, his trembling hand clutching his torn throat.

Hurling the brat to the ground at his feet, Death’s hands clenched and unclenched in violent fury, his eyes blazing. “I told you to depart,” he snarled, the backhand hurling the vampire half a dozen paces across the room.

Rolling, his shirt slipping halfway down his arms, the vampire raised his face from the floor. “But, darling,” he whispered, “I told you when we first met, I never ever do what I’m told.”

A savage kick sent him rolling, and Death realised belatedly the direction the brat was going. He had not fallen where he had by accident, and as he scrambled backwards, as if terrified of further violence, and collided with Rudolf’s body, Death wondered if there was any way to discourage the boy.

Rudolf’s broad hands clutched the vampire’s bared shoulders, staying his momentum, and unseen by the Prince, the brat’s lips twitched in an impish smile. He leaned back into the Prince’s touch as if afraid of Death’s continued ire.

“You will not let him harm me, Majesty?” he implored, bringing his hands up to desperately clutch at Rudolf’s, his fingers squeezing the Crown Prince’s. He turned his pale head, his face suddenly close to Rudolf’s, eyes wide with innocent helplessness that almost made Death laugh aloud in disbelief.

After the sight that had encountered them, the Prince would have to be a fool to believe...

“Damn it, von Krolock!” Grabbing the brat by his trailing hair, Death pulled the brat’s mouth off the startled Prince’s. Parted in shock, the Prince’s lips shone pale silver with Aerean’s stolen blood.

Pulled back onto his knees, his spine arched, his head twisted back mercilessly, Herbert von Krolock grinned up at him. “Oh, darling,” he said, lips twitching wickedly. “You truly thought I could resist?”

His face close to the vampire brat’s, Death bared his teeth. “This one is mine,” he hissed, his lips near touching von Krolock, drawing a longing whine from the vampire. He could taste the scent of Aerean’s blood and desire on those incorrigible lips and saw the gleam in the grey-green eyes an instant before the brat’s hand caught his hair, pulling his mouth down, letting him taste it in its purity, mingled with the flavour of the Prince and the brat himself.

Throwing the vampire away from him with a hiss, Death heard the brat laugh as he tumbled into the Prince again, sending them both sprawling. Somehow, the brat came out on top, on his knees between the Prince’s splayed thighs. Lunging to his knees behind the brat, he sank a fist into the brat’s hair, pulling those roaming lips from the dazed Prince’s. His other arm wrapped around the brat’s waist, stilling him.

Death watched the vampire’s left hand catch the heavy buckle of the belt of the Prince’s breeches, staying him, then groaned as the right hand slid beneath the skirts that still covered his legs, those slim fingers kneading his thigh.

Sprawled beneath the vampire, Rudolf’s eyes were wide and he looked like he wanted nothing more than to scramble back across the floor, his hair in disarray, his full lower lip grazed by the vampire’s fangs. His eyes were on the vampire, who was arching in Death’s hold, his head thrown back, his lips parted, moans escaping him.

That more than the hand held the Prince in thrall and motionless, snared like so many others before him, dazzled by the sensual lure of the vampire. The beauty of the fear and uncertain lust was not lost on Death. He had seen it in his angels before, and in the eyes of the boy’s victims for years.

“Give me a reason to let you stay, vampire,” he whispered in a low growl against the vampire’s throat. Fingers moved nimbly beneath the ruffles of silk and velvet and the brat inclined his head to run his cheek against the tip of Death’s nose. Death snorted with reluctant amusement. “Aside from that.”

A mannerless tongue emerged between the fangs, flicking the end of Death’s nose. “How can I show you when you hold me so, mein Herr?” he whispered, his eyes gleaming with hunger and wickedness. His hand slid from Rudolf’s belt down across the front of the Prince’s breeches, making blue eyes go wide, and up Herbert’s own breeches to wrap around Death’s wrist, gently drawing the arm from his waist.

Then with an elegance that belied his motive, the vampire swept down to claim the dazed prince’s lips again, sinking his hand into the Prince’s golden hair. The brat’s body rolled, his hips shifting again until there was barely a finger’s width between his unliving body and the Prince’s still-warm one.

With a yelp, Rudolf seemed to shake himself from the haze surrounding him, twisting his head away from the vampire’s lips, but that did nothing to dissuade the brat. Death found himself grinning despite himself as the brat’s lips teased the Prince’s throat and jaw, then the tip of that pale tongue daintily tasted the dimple in the Prince’s fair cheek.

And despite all his innocence around the Prince’s face, the vampire’s hips were writhing like a snake, undulating wickedly. Death could see the Prince trying to lift trembling hands to push the brat away, but every time they rose, the brat would twitch just so and poor, guileless Rudolf would jerk with a gasp, his fists flinching inches from the floor.

Under Death’s skirt, the brat’s hand slipped, touching his thigh and Death let himself be guided forward until he was rising on his knees over the brat, pressing close against the boy. He reached down, dragging the brat’s pale hair back and felt the shudder of pleasure run the length of the brat’s body, echoed in the gyrations of the brat’s hips.

The brat whispered something close to the Prince’s ear, his tongue teasing the lobe, and Rudolf’s face contorted in anguish and he shook his head tightly. His hands were quaking fists, his eyes squeezed closed. Herbert laughed softly then ground his hips against the Prince’s, drawing a strangled cry of want from the Prince’s stubborn throat.

With a coy glance over his shoulder, the brat caught Death’s hand at his hip and slid it between his body and the Prince’s. “He claims he does not wish this, mein Herr,” he whispered, the Prince’s body belying his gestures. “Your poor fool guest...”

“Guests,” Death replied, his hand closing over the vampire’s groin. He met those shimmering grey-green eyes, his lip curling, and his hand squeezed mercilessly. “Should be treated with respect.”

“You never respect me,” the brat pouted, a hiss of air escaping him as his head was twisted ruthlessly towards Death’s.

“You were never a guest, von Krolock.” Death reminded him quietly. His fingers twisted in the vampire’s pale hair. “Intruders deserve nothing better than what you receive.” The vampire’s mouth opened, his moan swallowed by Death’s lips and punctuated by a growl when Death bit his lower lip. “Violence and pain, little brat.”

“Oh, promise me more,” the vampire whined, his hands both slipping beneath Death’s full skirts, pawing, kneading wantonly. Death grinned and brought his mouth against the faint scar that marked the change from mortal to unliving. His teeth scraped the lightly raised skin and the vampire’s fingers sank into Death’s flesh. “Mein Herr!”

One hand sliding between cloth and flesh, Death squeezed the brat hard and with his other hand stifled the cry that escaped the vampire as he bit that very scar, bit with enough violence to tear flesh and make the vampire keen wildly before him, bucking in his grasp.

Smothering the vampire’s sounds, his own breathing rapid against the pale throat, Death slowly slanted his eyes towards the Prince.

Though he was free of any restraints and at liberty to flee, Rudolf was staring at the writhing vampire with more than just terrified wildness in his eyes. Half-sprawled on his back, raised on his elbows, his shirt open and loose, his breeches half-undone, his hair in disarray, he licked kiss-swollen lips.

It wasn’t a nervous gesture.

With a ruthless tug of his hand, Death directed the vampire’s face downwards until both of them were watching the Prince watching them. Death felt the brat’s mouth curl in a panting smile against his palm, and slowly lowered his head to lick the blood from the vampire’s wounded throat.

Herbert moaned. A little overdramatically, Death, thought, but the way the vampire arched his neck was indication enough and he dragged his teeth up to tug on the brat’s earlobe. It would only have been a completely senseless fool who could have ignored the stifled groan that escaped the vampire.

It was watching a Master at work, he had to acknowledge it; the way the graceful, pale hands reached out then drew back, enticing the dazed Prince closer until he was within touching distance, until his hands - in turn - reached out, caught by the vampire’s charm.

Long, white fingers were laid with shocking tenderness on the Prince’s shoulders, the brat’s every touch chaste, delicate, touching the Prince’s throat, shoulders, the elegant collarbone bared when his shirt had been torn open. Every gesture the polar opposite of the brat’s previous rude gropings.

“Tease.” Death’s mutter was for the brat’s ears only and he felt the chuckle under his lips as Rudolf tried to stifle a sigh, Herbert’s fine, soft fingers delicately brushing cheeks, eyelids, lashes, lips.

Tilting his head slightly to rub his jaw against Death’s brow, Herbert’s voice was little more than a breath. “I can be worse, mein Herr,” he murmured, then his mouth was on the Prince’s, softly, tenderly, gentle and seductive.

His hands brushed down the bared arms, dispatching the tattered remains of Rudolf’s shirt, until his fingers circled the Prince’s wrists. He had something in mind, Death could tell, as he leaned close and kissed the brat’s neck, a silent query as to his intent.

Twisting from Rudolf’s lips, ignoring the sigh, to claim Death’s mouth, the brat whispered a single word into the kiss; “Chains.”

Sliding his own hands up Herbert’s arms to cover his hands where they were wrapped around Rudolf’s wrists, Death smiled, his lips against the brat’s neck as the brat distracted Rudolf with that skilful mouth of his.

Shadows shifted to his wishes and silent darkness coiled around his Majesty’s wrists, his attention caught completely by the lips and teeth and tongue of the devil child that was pressed between him and Death.

Herbert’s hand shifted and move to Death’s side, tapping. Death’s fingers squeezed his other hand in acknowledgement. Next move to the brat. His mouth moving from Rudolf’s to kiss the Prince’s throat, his grey-green eyes slanted to Death even as Rudolf’s head fell back, his lips parted in panting breaths.

The mischievous eyes said it all. Up.

Perhaps, he should have allowed some sound.

If he had, though, it would have denied them the look on Rudolf’s face as he was abruptly jerked upright by his shadow-shackled arms, torn from Herbert’s wicked lips and touches, his feet an inch above the ground.

With a lazy smirk, Herbert leaned back into Death.

“There,” he said with a self-gratifying tone. “Aren’t you glad you let me stay?”

As the awareness became clear to the Prince, and the desire gave way to shocked outrage and a fiery passion that had long been burned out in his mortal time, Death felt his lips curve up in a smile to match the brat’s.

“You have your moments, von Krolock,” he agreed, sliding his hand down the front of the brat’s body. “Now, what to do with him...”

“Release me,” Rudolf’s voice was shaking with fury and barely-masked panic, his hands tugging at the shackles and the chains that were suspended from nothing, barely inches above his grasping fingers.

Herbert giggled, his head rolling back against Death’s shoulder as Death’s hand slipped down the front of his breeches. “But that would be no fun, Majesty,” he said, the subtlest of hitches in his voice suggesting that Death had touched him as he liked.

The once-mortal started struggling against the chains in earnest, jerking and thrashing. If anything, that made the brat moan even more, wriggling against Death’s hand, and Death felt that maybe the cocksure little brat had earned something for suggesting it in the first place.

By the time he was spent, the Prince was too, hanging uselessly in the chains and panting like a stricken dog, his expression one of despair, while the vampire purred in satisfaction.

“Now, any more clever ideas?” Death inquired, lifting his hand to Herbert’s mouth, and grinning as the brat contentedly licked his palm clean for him. Fangs nipped at his fingers, then a tongue darted in a way Death had felt only a little while earlier. “Him?”

The vampire giggled, tilting his head to slant a look at Death. “There are two of us, mein Herr,” he purred, arching lazily. “And he has two very pretty sides to him.” He groaned in contentment as Death stroked his chest thoughtfully. “I hardly mind sharing.”

“Whether they want it or not, you insatiable brat,” Death retorted with a snort, getting to his feet, leaving Herbert sprawled in a lazy heap.

One hand fisted in the brat’s hair and dragged him forcefully towards the Prince who tried to shy back, his expression one of distressed distaste as Herbert spilled at his feet, giggling, his breeches around his knees.

Stepping behind him, Death wondered with amusement what the unfortunate Prince looked like as his own trousers were jerked down by Death’s own hands. The yelp of shock was delightful, but it was the predatory mirth on the brat’s face when Death peered over the Prince’s shoulder that was satisfying enough.

He had a feeling dear, sweet Rudolf would be crying for his dear sweet mama all too soon.

_________________________

 

There was no light in Death’s dominion to indicate the hour in the world of mortals, though the boundary could open whenever he willed it. Yet, there was a feeling of a lazy evening about the main chamber, where Death was sprawled upon a couch of shadows, an enthusiastic vampire mouth tending him.

His feet were propped on a body which lay recumbent on the floor. Occasionally, it twitched, but he was beyond caring about the mild reactions. There would be no more entertainment from that particular plaything.

Several hours of amusing play had extended to days, only haltered here and there when duty had summoned him. By and by, the Crown Prince’s fragile and splintering mind had shattered under delicately applied pressure, but that had not stopped the games, not even for a moment.

Death groaned, his hand fisting in the vampire’s hair, and he felt more than heard the giggle against his skin. He only loosened his hand when the contented licking turned into a reproving nip.

Green-grey eyes rose to him and the vampire set his chin on Death’s thigh, that wicked tongue licking those equally wicked lips clean. He smiled as innocently as he was able. “That was fun.”

Death idly shifted a foot, poking the ribs of Crown Prince Rudolf. “He could have taken a little more,” he protested in a grumble, fingers sinking into the vampire’s hair again. “You got carried away.”

Fangs nipped his thigh and he growled in reprimand.

“He was pretty when he was breaking,” the vampire said, a pout in his voice.

That, Death had to admitted, was true, but it didn’t stop him twisting his fist into the vampire boy’s hair until it tore. “Not the point,” he said in a low snarl.

“True,” Herbert said airily, as one hand reached up and pulled Death’s head down towards his. “But you’re the one who let me stay.”

And as his mouth was claimed, and he could taste himself and the Prince and the blood of angels again, he wondered for the hundredth, thousandth time, why he kept on indulging the brat.


	8. Requiem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Herbert gets bored with Death's moping

Death had given up on the woman.

Driving her son to madness was a pleasure, but when she had demanded that he take her too, raving, and tottering around the crypt, he found the thought of an eternity of that worse than an eternity of the brat.

At least, he could wait until she was more herself again. It was just uncomfortable to watch her weeping and wailing beside the boy’s corpse. It wasn’t as if the boy had been completely stable anyway. It could hardly have been a surprise.

The fact he broke even more after his demise was just an added pleasure.

That was the catch.

He liked the woman wild and unbroken, like a horse that might throw him at any moment, just because she felt like it. Rudolf had been entertaining because he’d tried to fool himself into thinking he was that wild, but with a firm hand and a sharp voice, he had buckled like a child’s tamed pony.

Elisabeth was no longer that wild creature, someone who was interesting and dangerous and would strike him and not cower in his presence. She had cowered and he had been disgusted by it.

Suddenly, taking her son had gone from an amusing vengeance, showing her the futility of her sham marriage, to breaking her and that wasn’t what he wanted.

He had tried to stop himself going to her, watching her, indulging in perverted little glimpses of her through her mirrors, but he couldn’t and it was driving him to madness too. Days, then weeks, then months, then years of it. He loved her, and he knew he would until she was his and he had claimed every single part of her, wild and brilliant like a star.

But not yet. Not until that madness was gone and she was more interesting.

It certainly explained why he was currently being serviced by the damned brat instead of the woman.

Sprawled sullenly in his chair, he glared at the darkness around them. The boy had a talent with his mouth, but he also had an ego that needed stroked more than anything else. When it wasn’t given the due attention, his teeth reminded the one guilty of neglecting him.

Death struck him across the head. “Damn it, don’t bite, you little brat!”

Von Krolock pouted at him from his position on his knees, between Death’s thighs. “You hardly even noticed I was here, mein Herr. All this hard work and you are thinking of that silly woman again.” He slid his cheek along Death’s thigh. “I am here. She is not.”

Death struck him again, sharply.

Von Krolock sprawled at his feet, making a pitiable sound in his throat.  
“You are in a terrible humour lately,” he said, crawling back to his knees. He grabbed Death’s shaft suddenly, viciously, making him curse. “I do not like it when you strike me so much when there are so much better things to do.”

“If you kept your mouth occupied and silent, it would be better,” Death snapped, grabbing his blond hair and forcing his head down.

It was only fortunate that the boy enjoyed what he did and resumed without further complaint, although he intensified his attentions, making sure Death responded with more than a blow or a curse.

Death returned his gaze to the darkness.

He was in a terrible humour, as the boy had observed. It would be time soon, very soon now, and he not spoken to her since the day he had rejected her. Her life would be his and if she was half-mad still...

His eyes closed and he hissed softly.

The boy sat back and licked his lips with satisfaction. He propped his chin on Death’s knee, and habitually, Death stroked his pale hair. It was almost like having a pet, in a twisted and pleasant way. For the most part, the brat was compliant and willing to do anything that was asked of him for little in return.

“Vati says she will die soon.”

Death’s hand stilled.

“You know that, of course.” The brat yawned. “No wonder you’re worrying so. But don’t worry, darling. Even if her mind is half gone, she still has a body and you can use that all you please.”

Death’s hand moved automatically, twisting and wrenching the brat’s head back. “Do not speak of things you don’t understand,” he spat, glaring into the vampire brat’s upturned face.

Grey eyes danced with malicious glee. “If I’m wrong, why are you so cross, darling?” he cooed, his smile baring his fangs.

Death hit him then, again, an cursed viciously, dropping the brat to the floor. He kicked him once for good measure, stalking across the floor.

Pushing himself up on his elbows, lips dripping blood, Herbert von Krolock looked over at him. “If mentioning it makes you cross,” he whispered, “then I should probably not mention the odd little anarchist Vati has been playing with or what he’s been up to.”

Death whirled around. “What?”

Von Krolock giggled and rolled onto his back. “She was assaulted a little time ago, mein Herr,” he said, trailing his fingers through the blood on his lower lip. “Vati just made sure you didn’t notice. Nobody noticed and now, you’re not there and she will go quite mad in the solitude...”

Death swore again, savagely, whirling to seek her out in the patterns of life, and the brat had spoken true. He could see her. The place, he knew. Lake Geneva. He parted the walls between his place and theirs, leaving the brat to giggle.

She was a lost soul already, her body dead. It had died slowly but she had been separated from it for a long while. How long she had been, he couldn’t be sure, and he knew he would have to strike out at the damned vampire for that. His father too.

To his surprise, he saw her unpin her rigidly-bound hair. It was dark again, and he watched it fall loose around her shoulders. The dark, heavy black dress of mourning followed, forced down and kicked aside, and she looked around wonderingly.

He grinned suddenly, and called her name.

She turned and he saw the smile he remembered a moment before he caught her and kissed her, hungrily, greedily. After so many years of waiting for her, he knew he had earned that at least.

It was much later that she was finally allowed to rest, exhausted, in his arms and his bed at last. He was watching her sleep when lips brushed his bare shoulder and he forced himself to remain still, so not to wake her.

Von Krolock gave him a smile that was much softer than usual. “Did you like your little surprise, mein Herr?” he whispered.

He was a little distracted by the cool hand wandering down his side under the sheet and the warm body tucked in front of him. “My little surprise?” he finally managed to ask, his voice low.

“You were fretting so, mein Herr,” the brat whispered, leaning closer to nip Death’s lower lip between his fangs. “And when you fret, I end up with such a headache, so we had a nice little surprise to stop you worrying so. That assassin was so easily led and Vati said she was a very reasonable lady to speak to. It was almost embarrassingly easy.”

Death stared at him blankly.

The vampire giggled softly and kissed the nipped lip. “You are quite welcome, mein Herr,” he whispered and his hand moved. Grey eyes glinted. “And now,” he added as Death smothered a groan, “a pleasant present for her.”

“Brat!” Death hissed, his body responding far too easily to the boy’s touches.

And just when he had found the will to move and dash the brat across the head with his hand, the vampire was gone with a flurry of blond hair and a giggle.

Death sighed ruefully and looked down at the woman in his arms.

A surprise for her it was then.


End file.
